Chapter 15
15
The cleaner did an amazing job. The floor is scrubbed to a shine, not a trace of Chloe’s remnants. They even lit a candle. Baies by Diptyque. It has a little golden carousel accessory on top that spins with the heat of the wick. Very fancy.
I take some time getting acquainted with my new living space. Find where Chloe stored her spices, her cutlery. I explore a cabinet I hadn’t opened last night and discover a drawer full of prescriptions. Staring at the little containers makes me ill. How messed up must you be for a doctor to prescribe so many medications at once? At the same time, I’m a bit amazed. I wonder what insurance she has to afford all these meds. Maybe she paid out of pocket. She has the money. If I had all these little tablets, the support of doctors, the ability to pay for help, could I have lived with more purpose?
In the bathroom, makeup and skincare products are bursting out of the floor-to-ceiling cabinets. The products are separated into three sections. Unopened products at the bottom. Sponsored products, many of which are still sealed despite her claiming they saved her skin, in the middle. And products that are half empty, high-end stuff like Vintner’s Daughter and La Prairie, within arm’s reach.
I lie on her bed. The plush mattress snuggles my body; the sumptuous down pillows adjust to the shape of my neck.
I try on all her clothes. Some fit. Most don’t. I’m a bit wider than she, with some extra belly and thigh fat. Makes sense, considering I’m mostly stationary while she’s at Pilates by seven a.m. Luckily, our feet are the same size. I slip on every pair of Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks. Every colorful sneaker and dead-stock dad shoe. I even try on her beat-up Birkenstocks. The topographical imprints of our soles are so identical it makes me a bit uncomfortable.
I’m slipping on a golden Rolex when someone knocks. I swear, if it’s the damned neighbor again… With a sigh, I open the door and see a small Filipino woman standing in the hallway. At first, I just stare, wondering who she is, but then I catch sight of the IKEA-sized tote lugged over one shoulder and a garment bag on the other. I figure it’s the cleaner Fiona hired returning with Chloe’s dry cleaning. I’m afraid to say the first thing. I’ve never had help around the house before—if anything, I was the help. (I can’t count the number of times I had to scrub my cousin’s dried piss off the side of the toilet bowl because he refused to look away from his mobile games to aim.) Are hired cleaners supposed to stare at their employer with pure contempt stamped between their brows? Or maybe she’s waiting for payment. A tip? Oh god, how much do cleaners cost?
“Christ,” she utters. “You look like shit.” Wow. Okay. “Well? Are you going to let me in or just stand there?”
Fiona. Her nasal voice is a dead giveaway. For some reason, I expected her to be a skinny white girl, not this small, Filipino woman with a liter of attitude. It makes sense why Fiona is absent from Chloe’s content: she’s not really “on-brand.”
This reminds me, I need to go through every single person Chloe follows and familiarize myself with their faces. Read through DMs too.
“Sorry. Come in.”
She barges inside. “Are you sick?”
“What?”
“You sound weird.”
“Do I?” Shit. Voice and composure are how you pick out a fraud, at least according to my aunt. She could walk into a department store dressed like she’s homeless, but if she carried the studied and condescending air of the elite, she could return a stolen La Mer container filled with Nivea without a receipt and come home with a crisp two grand in her pocket. (This worked five times before La Mer changed their refund policy.) As much as I hate to admit it, I might have to take a page from my aunt’s book. Watch more of Chloe’s videos, practice her sense of privilege, study her tone and her turns of phrase.
But for now, I’ll lay into Fiona’s preconceived beliefs. I clear my throat repeatedly. “I might be coming down with something.”
“As long as you’re not contagious. I just got over a case of mono.”
“Thanks for sending a cleaner over, by the way.”
“The apartment, like, literally smelled like a dead body. I would’ve killed myself if I had to breathe it in a second longer. Anyway, I picked up the dress for tomorrow. Do you want to do a quick fitting? I still have time to make last-minute adjustments if it’s too big.”
She unzips the garment bag and reveals a stunning emerald silk dress with a Van Gogh–style embroidery of a lily pond draping the skirt. If I could describe it in one word, it would be expensive . This looks like something a celebrity would wear on a red carpet.
I nod eagerly and take the dress to try on in the bedroom. I step into the garment from the neck. It goes past my hips with no resistance and the straps sit pretty on my shoulders. The jewel tones are perfect for my skin shade. But then I try to zip it up. The zipper moves an inch before it gets stuck. My stomach is way too big, and the silk has zero give.
Fiona knocks on the door. “How does it look? Can I come in?”
“No!”
“What? Why?”
“N-no. It’s fine. It looks great. Like, literally perfect.” I take off the dress, set it aside, and change back into my clothes before heading back out. I smile. “How much was this dress?” I might have to return it. There’s no way I’ll shove my bloat into that silk by tomorrow unless I pull off a miracle.
She looks at me like I’m stupid. Like the price is something I should know.
“Sister died. Brain’s a mess.” I try to laugh it off while pouring myself a glass of water.
Fiona sighs. “Custom from Slate Stan. Made from Japanese hand-spun cruelty-free mulberry silk, embroidered with angora-wool thread. Retail is sixteen K.”
I almost choke on my water. One dress. Sixteen thousand? What on God’s mighty green earth is wrong with this world?
“But we got it for free in exchange for a social post at Bella Marie’s event.”
“And, um, this is just purely hypothetical, what if I decide not to wear it tomorrow?”
She gapes.
“Like,” I add, “if I feel like a different vibe?”
“This dress is custom-made for you. Slate can’t resell it. So, you’d have to pay. But that’s not the issue.” She puts her hands on her hips and stares at me hard. “Don’t you remember the lengths we went through to get him to accept your custom order? Literally months of lobbying! The optics would be foul if you go back on your word. Slate loves being an asshole and running his mouth about bad experiences with influencers. That’s a part of his whole ‘authentic’ brand.” She rolls her eyes and does air quotes for authentic. “Remember when Jasmine Davis got canceled after he flamed her on his socials? She lost half a mil in one week and only weird Amazon drop shippers sponsor her now. That’s the whole reason every influencer wants to work with him. If he gives his seal of approval, it’s a testament to our authenticity.”
I didn’t know a dress could be this serious. What the hell is wrong with these people? Men accused of sexual assault don’t receive half this scrutiny.
“But my sister died. He’d understand, wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe. If you don’t plan on going to Bella Marie’s event. But you are, so you have to wear his dress. And you can’t renege on the event since I just confirmed your attendance with Bella Marie’s assistant. And you certainly don’t want to be on Bella Marie’s bad side.”
Why is this all so overly complicated? “I’ll be there.” I try not to show my panic. I can’t let a dress be my demise when I barely had the chance to enjoy Chloe’s life. “I was just asking… for curiosity’s sake.”
She nods slowly. “If you say so. Also, we have this meeting with—”
“Can you push everything back? Actually, you know what? Take the rest of the day off.” I shove her toward the door. “Paid, of course. I just need some time to myself right now.”
“But this is with Jessica Peters—”
I slam the door in her face and run into the bedroom, staring at the emerald silk garment.
My twin died and I stole her life, which might be a felony, yet somehow, my biggest concern right now is how to fit into a dress.